


Comfortably Numb

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Benedict Cumberbatch AU - Freeform, Drunk Benedict Cumberbatch, F/M, just another love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 04:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12622844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Izzy and her boyfriend are having a rough day, and when he shows up at her workplace, drunk and angry, things go from heated to explosive.





	Comfortably Numb

**Author's Note:**

> Mild language below, reader discretion advised!
> 
> This work was written with all respect to BC and family.

_Sometime in 2014._       

Izzy stood behind the bar, _her_ bar, sipping from a water bottle as her eyes surveyed the post-work office crowd that was slowly starting to filter in. It was pretty packed for a Thursday night, the conversations swelling over the music that wound its way through the bar, but it was to be expected. Everyone needed a drink in anticipation of the weekend, needed that extra boost to live through the work day on Friday.

“Boss, why are you here? Isn’t today your day off so you could be with your posh thing?” one of the waitresses asked, a leggy blonde that had gotten disturbingly good at fooling people into thinking she was just a waitress, when in reality she was about to get her doctorate in physics.

“Posh thing?” Izzy laughed, “that’s an actual phrase?”

“Yeah,” Emilia laughed, “what would American’s call him?

“Mr. Fancy Pants?” Izzy forced a laugh.

Emilia’s pale blue eyes widening in excitement, “or is he coming to visit you here? You know I’ve worked here for six bloody months, and I haven’t gotten to meet him yet? I mean, my boss is living with Sherlock Holmes, and I don’t have anything to show for it!”

“Don’t you have an order to fill?” Izzy asked pointedly, and quickly memorized the five drinks Emilia recited from her notepad, already grabbing bottles off the shelf to mix the cocktails.

There was something incredibly peaceful about the method of mixing drinks, the attention to detail, the calculations that went into making something that would help someone feel better after a long day. But she’d been a bartender for so long, she barely registered her actions as she mixed the martini for one of her patrons, her thoughts drifting to the _posh thing_.

Mr. Fancy Pants.

She was still so angry with him that she refused to even think about his name, as if just recalling his four syllable first name or even the one syllable nickname would conjure him up, and reopen the wounds from the fight they’d had. The fight that had forced her to leave the apartment they shared, slamming the door behind her, gathering her coat around her and setting off for her bar. Her staff had been surprised to see her, everyone assuming she’d spend her day off with her boyfriend, who was rarely in town. But they hadn’t asked any questions, just followed the orders she barked at them as she burst in, taking off her leather coat and throwing it behind the bar without ceremony.

Emilia was, as always, an exception to the rule that had kept everyone from asking her why she was there. And it seemed as if she’d broken some kind of seal, disrupted the cone of silence around the topic because now her bartender stood next to her, pouring a draught and looking at her from the corner of his eye, “so, why you here instead of with Mr. C?”

Izzy didn’t answer as she set the drinks on a tray for Emilia, methodically wiping her hands with a rag, “oh, y’know,” she cleared her throat, grateful for the growing crowd at the bar that demanded her attention, “he had things to do. In demand actor and all that.”

“You had a fight, didn’t you?” Jonny asked with a laugh.

She walked away without bothering to answer. Jonny had been with her for about five years now, ever since she had lost her mind, moved to London from her familiar California, and decided to open a bar in the more upscale part of the city. She’d left behind a thriving legal practice after realizing that she was much too young to be dealing with ulcers and heart conditions as a corporate attorney.

What was the sanity in a recovering alcoholic to own a bar? She didn’t know.

On nights like tonight, usually he would be her succor, her haven. Even if they weren’t in the same city, she knew she could call him or text him, and he would talk to her, that baritone of his creating such a fog in her mind that any need for alcohol would be replaced with him. She always imagined that he slowly inhabited every part of her body, filling her every nook and cranny, stretching himself inside her and driving away any need for alcohol, successfully creating the need for him instead.

But she couldn’t tonight, because they’d had an epic fight.

And she didn’t use the word epic lightly.

They never fought. They were both articulate people, always knowing each other’s limits, always forcing communication instead of the shouting match that had ended with her running out of their home.

As tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, she shook herself out of the reverie, ignoring the pain in the pit of her stomach as she thought of him. She drained the water bottle, her blood boiling and begging her to just sip the whiskey. Just one tiny sip to give her the same comfort she was providing everyone else in her bar.

What harm was there in one sip?

Realistically, there was none.

One small, insignificant sip.

“Who owns this place?” someone yelled, drawing her attention away from the desperation she felt in her bones.

Raising a brow, Izzy walked over to the older man with gray hair, “I do,” she smiled, “what can I help you with?”

“ _The Bucket of Blood_? What kind of name is that?” he made a disgusted face, shaking his head even as he drained his glass.

Izzy laughed. The name of her bar often caused a lot of confusion and dismay among her patrons, but once they got inside and felt the relaxed vibe, they became loyal customers. “It’s a tribute to one of my favorite singers,” she answered.

Jonny had come to stand next to her, the three backup bartenders practically running behind them to keep up with the increased demand for drinks as the waitresses brought more and more orders to them. She’d briefly considered the merits of letting them wear roller blades when they were tending bar. She looked up at the burly bartender, “Mr. Fancy Pants is here,” was all Jonny said.

Cursing vehemently, she walked to the end of the bar where a small commotion had erupted, announcing his presence wherever he want. With growing fame all over the globe as one of the greatest actors of his generation, if not the greatest of all time, getting ambushed or recognized had become a normal part of his existence. Even here, in his girlfriend’s bar, he couldn’t escape the people flocking to him for autographs or to simply tell him that they loved him.

He was usually patient and generous with all his fans, giving them as much as time as he could before slipping away with an genuine smile of gratitude and shyness that he just couldn’t shake off.

So, when Izzy saw him practically growling as he leaned across the bar, his pale, mercurial eyes tracking her movement with predatory intent, she frowned at him. He was always so carefully put together, polite, cheerful, and respectful, that the harshness she saw made her stop for a moment.

As she got closer, she cursed softly, trying to hide any emotion on her face as she stood facing him, not wanting anyone watching them to see that they’d fought, that they’d broken each other’s hearts, and now he was drunk out of his mind. Forever conscious of his public image and the fact that everyone was a cameraman these days, she leaned towards him in a gesture most would mistake for intimacy, “What are you doing here?” she murmured.

“I needed a drink,” he told her with a shrug, his eyes were unfocused, slurring his words slightly, his lisp more pronounced with every word he spoke, “I thought this was a bar.”

“It is,” she ground out, “but clearly you’ve been drinking already. And you don’t need another drink.”

“Well excuse me,” he bit out, the beautiful baritone a harsh whisper as he brought a cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag, “my girlfriend is mad at me. I’m having a shitty, _shitty_ day without her. And now I want to get drunk enough to forget my shitty, _shitty_ day.”

She frowned as he blew a cloud of gray smoke at the ceiling, trying her best not to watch the way his elegant throat worked as he exhaled, the way his sharp cheekbones and jaw worked together to make that delicious hollow as he inhaled the poisonous smoke again. “Since when did you start smoking?”

He rolled his eyes, “I told you, shitty day,” he gazed into her eyes, and she felt herself swaying towards him. It didn’t help that he looked gorgeous in that dark Burberry suit, a black shirt that was open all the way down his chest, with a white t-shirt underneath, and she knew he was wearing chains on his belt much in the way of a throw-back to punk. His curly hair, back to its original auburn these days, was a disheveled mess.

He looked so prim and proper, a complete gentleman. And she knew they always got looks when they appeared together, Izzy with her deep red hair, tattoos that ran all down her arms and one leg, an entire ear pierced and usually sporting a lip ring. They looked like complete opposites, but in fact, they completed each other. Whatever graceful calm his outward appearances conjured up in people’s minds were the foundations of Izzy’s personality. And whatever thoughts of rebellion and a fuck-you attitude Izzy’s looks encouraged in people were more suited his wild soul. But they _looked_ opposite, and tongues wagged about them.

Not that either of them cared.

And tonight, she was dressed all in black, her thick red hair in a messy bun, her short sleeves showing off her tattoos, wearing clunky boots and a pair of slim black jeans that hugged her long legs. She looked uncaring and well, badass.

He looked good enough to eat, and under normal circumstances, Izzy would have been happy to eat him.

But her heart hurt.

“Go home,” she murmured, “you’ve had enough to drink today.”

“Aren’t bartenders supposed to be good listeners? Good advice givers? Booze slinging, amateur therapists?” he straightened away from her, waving his hands as he spoke, “you’re not giving me any good advice right now, mate,” he took another drag from his cigarette, this time blowing the smoke in her face.

“Everything all right?” Jonny appeared behind him, the concern in his eyes palpable as he stared directly at Izzy.

Despite how drunk he was, he stood up in a flash, facing Jonny, thrusting his hand and his cigarette in the other man’s face, “no body fuckin’ asked you,” he growled, “when I need your bloody interference, I’ll call you. Got that? She’s my girlfriend, your _boss_ , and this is none of your fucking business. So back the _fuck_ off.”

Izzy vaulted over the bar, putting herself between the two when she realized Jonny was squaring his shoulders. She forced a smile, a hand on her boyfriend’s chest as she tried to make the scene to be one of absolute, innocent misunderstanding between friends. “Thanks Jon, I’ll take it from her,” she turned to face her boyfriend, having seen the multiple camera phones that were suddenly out and probably recording the entire thing.

She could imagine the headlines on twitter and the tabloids, about how the star of one of the most successful TV shows of all time, Olivier and Emmy winner, and future Oscar winner, was drunk and brawling in his girlfriend’s London bar.

She leaned into him, her lips against his ear as she gripped the chain at his waist to pull him closer, “either get out or I’m going to let security come and escort you out,” she murmured.

He looked down at her with those indescribable eyes, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he leaned down, “I want to talk to you,” his eyes were searching hers, “please,” he added softly.

“I’ll meet you in the back,” she told him and watched as he slipped past the patrons, heading towards the exit that led to the dingy alley behind _The Bucket of Blood._ She pasted a grin on her face, lifting herself up slightly to shout to one of the junior bartenders to give Izzy her bottle of water and leather jacket. Slipping it on, she nodded and chatted her way to the exit, laughing and mingling as if she had all the time in the world, and no concerns.

Inside, she felt herself slowly dying.

She nearly laughed when she pushed open the door to see him crouched down on his haunches in the corner, smoking furiously. He’d taken off the jacket and it was now in his lap, the thick muscles in his arms and thighs bulging as he balanced himself on the balls of his feet, his eyes focused on a distant point. Rolling her eyes, she grabbed his cigarette from him, taking a deep drag. He didn’t even react, just shook another one out, lighting it with a single stroke of his thumb against the wheel of the lighter, the dancing light flaring and illuminating his face, the hollows beneath his cheeks more pronounced.

Izzy watched him as she smoked his cigarette, leaning against the red bricks on the opposite side of the alley, remembering the countless times she’d buried her lips in that hollow as he’d smoked a cigar or cigarette. The countless times they’d shared a smoke after falling into bed together, the nicotine patches and endless bitching when they’d quit together.

“I thought you quit,” he finally murmured.

“I thought you quit too so hey,” she crushed the butt of the cigarette under her boot, “shit happens.”

They fell into an uneasy silence again, each lost in their own thoughts after he handed her another lit cigarette. But she let that one burn itself out, too busy lamenting what they had lost in that moment. They’d been together for nearly three years now, living together for just over a year. One of the reasons she loved being with him was the fact that silences between them was a welcome comfort. She had never known him to be the type of man who had to disrupt silence, who had to fill the space between them with meaningless words, words spoken just to be spoken. But as they smoked in the dingy alley, she realized that they had lost that peace between them, temporarily destroyed, up in smoke with their resolve not to smoke.

At least she wasn’t drinking.

“You know love,” he said quietly, “I’ve spent the last several hours trying to remember why we were fighting, and I can’t remember,” he shook his head, “how ridiculous is that?”

She laughed slightly, fighting the tears that were threatening her again, choking her, “pretty ridiculous.”

He stood up, his broad hand pressed against the red bricks to hold his balance, “all I’ve been thinking about is how nothing matters unless you’re with me,” he was still looking down the alley, watching the people and cars at the main road, “about how no matter what is happening in my life, it’s worthless, meaningless if you’re not there to share it with me. I mean fuck,” he laughed softly, “look at me. I’m a bloody mess.”

Izzy couldn’t help smiling, “I know,” she acknowledged, walking towards him, “I’ve been in a daze. I don’t want to fight,” she stood in front of him and he finally looked down at her, “I don’t know why we were fighting either but God, I just know I can’t function knowing you’re distant from me.”

He reached up to run his hands through his hair and she shivered slightly, watching the way the white t-shirt stretched across his chest, the way the sleeves seemed to groan and strain against the muscles of his biceps. She didn’t stop herself from wrapping her arms around his lean waist, laying her cheek against his chest and sighing, breathing in his familiar scent, a heady concoction of everything that he was mixed with the expensive cologne she bought for him. He wrapped his arms around her instantly, hugging her just as tightly as she was holding on to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said into her hair, “for everything I’ve ever done and ever will do. Take this as a blanket apology, for all the boneheaded, idiotic things I’m going to say and do over the course of our life together.”

Izzy laughed into his chest, feeling him reach up and free her hair from its bun, always preferring it to be loose and falling in waves down her back instead, running his long fingers through it, brushing it against his lips in an almost ritualistic way. “I accept your blanket apology darling,” she assured him, lifting her head away to look up at him, “Christ, I could get drunk just breathing near you. You smell like a distillery!”

“Watching you walk away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I would’ve lost my mind if I didn’t get drunk” he told her, tilting his head, “you haven’t felt a similar need, have you?”

She shook her head, kissing the space between his plum lower lip and chin, “no, I’ve just been drinking water and hoping it’ll all go away.”

“Good,” he nodded, hugging her again, nuzzling her throat, “I’m here now.”

Izzy held him against her, looking up at the dark sky above them and smiled, “and all is right with my world.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This little bit of writing was inspired by the Interview Magazine photo shoot! I hope you've enjoyed it and let me know what y'all think!


End file.
